English poet.
He wrote many romantic narrative poems, including "Childe Harold's Pilgrimagae," 1812.

I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, . . . that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,Falling like dew, upon a thought, producesThat which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. . . I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure.

Opinions are made to be changed -- or how is truth to be got at?

Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;A book's a book, although there's nothing in't.